So This Is Love
by Miss Wonderfreak
Summary: Royai 100 Themes off Touchstone. A lime or two, occasional character death. What more is there to be said?
1. They Watch

AN: GUESS WHAT! ITS TIME FOR ME TO TRY MY HAND AT THE ROYAI 100! I know I know, why am I starting this when I have SO many other fics I need to update, and the answer is that I am a horrid procrastinator who just got bit by a plot bunny. I tweaked a few of the themes because they didn't make sense to me, so if any of them are a little different, that's why. As usual, timeline is beaten with a large stick, sorry. Wait this AN is sounding really aggressive… sorry about that too.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist

**Military Personnel**

They watch each other. Never at the same time, and almost never consciously, but they watch each other. Little glances every few minutes, checking that the other is still alive and well, that their heart still beats and their lungs still breathe.

It is 8:00 am precisely when she walks into work, her blonde hair in the ever-present clip, uniform ironed, leather boots clicking smartly on the tiled linoleum floors. He isn't there yet, in his bed at home he is dreaming of her. It is 8:30 when he stumbles into work, a little hung-over, his hair mussed and face dirty, winking at secretaries, and, her lips ever so slightly pursed, she watches,

It is 10:00 am and the office is just settling into its daily routine. She takes a sip of her lukewarm espresso and makes a small grimace, then licks her bottom lip to catch a stray droplet, and he watches. As he stares morosely at the days paperwork piled in front of him, he sighs, and swivels his chair around to stare longingly out the window. And she watches.

It is 12:00 pm and it is lunch time. They both stay in the office to work. She is eating a pastrami sandwich, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin every few bites, and he watches. He isn't eating lunch, only drinking a large mug of bitter coffee, trying to ignore his throbbing head. By now he has played with his swivel chair until she shot the wheels out from under it, has reorganized his entire desk, has burned all the flies in the office, and has not touched his work. And she watches.

It is 2:00 pm and everyone is quiet. Her brow furrows while she rereads a report on the recall of ammunition due to a firing defect, and a slight breeze blows a flaxen strand of hair into her honey eyes. She tucks it back with her small calloused hand, and he watches. He is starting on his work, his fountain pen, a gift from an old flame, whispering against the white paper as he signs his name with less and less of a flourish. And she watches.

It is 5:00 and most people are packing up for the day. The sounds of tired goodbyes fill the office as briefcases click shut. She has taken half his paperwork for herself. Her ballpoint neatly checks boxes, her eyes slightly squinted in concentration, and he watches. He signs quietly, black hair falling over equally dark eyes, and she watches.

It is 9:00 and the building is cooling down in the soft night air, makes creaking noises. She turns the fluorescent lights off and her table lamp on, the soft yellow glow illuminating her profile. And he watches. He gets a cup of water from the cooler in the corner, and as he yawns and stretches, and the room is filled with the soft popping of joints sliding back into place, she watches.

It is 11:00 and they are finally done. She turns off her light and locks the door behind them, then says goodnight and begins to walk home, her blonde hair coming out of its ever-present clip, uniform slightly wrinkled, leather boots clacking against rough cement. And he watches. He sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair, then turns around and heads to the bar on the corner, his back growing smaller as he saunters down the street away from her, and she watches.

They watch each other, their desks in the office separated by 8 feet at most. 8 feet. 8 feet and a rank, 8 feet and a lifestyle, 8 feet and a world that needs changing. So all they can do is watch.


	2. You Would Have Looked Just Like Her

a.n.: yet another drabble written at 3 am! w00t! I dunno where Riza is. Dead? In Mozambique? With the Fuhrer? You decide. I really have no idea what this fic is about, a plot bunny bit me and I was too tired to fight it. I got my inspiration from **evergreen20**'s You Remind Me of A Girl That I Once Knew. Well just from the summary, the plot really is unrelated. Oh, and I have abandoned the idea of doing them in order, im doing how inspiration bites.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

24. Not There

You Would Have Looked Just Like Her

Roy Mustang is drunk in a nearly empty bar somewhere. Outside it is raining, and his head is in some woman he met an hour ago's lap. His vision is beginning to fade to black, his stomach is churning, and bad country music plays distantly in the background. The nameless woman brushes his hair back from his damp forehead and croons soft soothing sounds to him.

"You would have looked just like her." He confides in her, his speech slurring beyond legibility.

She nods and gives a sad smile.

"You would have looked just like her if your hair was long and blonde and thinner."

He shifts in her lap to stare up at her face.

"You would have looked just like her if your eyes were honey colored, and deeper."

He frowns at this, and she pats his cheek.

"You would have looked just like her if your nose was a little bit smaller. And a tiny bit pointier."

She closes her eyes, and rocks to the beat of the music.

"You would have looked just like her if your jaw was slightly broader. And if your cheekbones were higher."

She lays her hand flat against his chest, and begins to rock to his heartbeat instead.

"You would have looked just like her if you were shorter."

A lonely sigh escapes her lips.

"You would have looked just like her if you were different."

He is beginning to drift off into sleep, and as his eyelids close he mumbles.

"You would have looked just like her if I loved you."


	3. Comatose

a.n.: this was originally in my royai death drabbles Til Death Do Us Part, but i realized they all fit better in here so i smushed everything together. the other 2 chapters of TDDUP will be appearing here shortly, afterr i wite a non-death related drabble because i dont want 3 deathfics in a row.

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA

16. Reachable Voice and Unreachable with a Voice

Comatose

People said she looked like she was asleep, but Roy didn't think so. He had seen her sleep. He had watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, had seen the way her mouth tightened during a bad dream, and he knew she wasn't sleeping. Her hair was greasy and stringy, knotted blonde locks splayed sporadically across the pillow. Her face was pale and splotchy, and her lips were a dull grey. Her body was completely slack, with none of the tension a sleeper has, and when he held her limp hand, it felt cold and incredibly soft. Riza's hands were like paws, her fingers calloused and rough. It wasn't her hand he was holding. It couldn't be. Her mouth was slightly open, and a strand of saliva hung off her bottom lip. Roy gently wiped it off with his sleeve. He brushed her hair back from her eyes, wincing as his fingertips touched the bandage that covered the bullet hole that should be in him, not her.

"Do it." He said, his voice rough and cracked, not turning around to face the doctor. The doctor nodded, and began switching off machines. Roy leaned down until his mouth was nearly touching her ear.

"I love you." He whispered, then pressed her fingertips to his mouth. And even though she was comatose and Roy knew it was impossible, he could have sworn that as her heart monitor gave its final beep, she gave a peaceful smile.


	4. Impending Doom

27. Dependency

2nd Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye is the one thing that stands between the world and impending doom.

For, without 2nd Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, there would be no Roy Mustang. If she were dead, he would be too.

Without Roy Mustang, there would be no hope for a better Fuhrer.

Without a better Fuhrer, there would be no hope for a better government.

Without hope for a better government, there would be no chance of the Homunculi ever being exterminated.

Without a chance of the Homunculi being exterminated, there is no hope that the giant transmutation symbol will not be activated.

If there is no hope that the giant transmutation symbol will not be activated, Amestris will be turned into a Philosopher's Stone.

If Amestris is turned into a Philosopher's Stone, then the Homunculi will gain even more power.

If the Homunculi gain even more power, they are surely going to turn the entire world into one giant Philosopher's Stone.

So, Riza Hawkeye is the one thing between the world and impending doom. The world doesn't know, she doesn't know, and Roy Mustang barely knows. But if it weren't for Riza Hawkeye, the Apocalypse would have come long ago.


	5. We Regret to Inform You

a.n.: this is another fic that was part of my royai death drabbles. I have a nagging suspicion i killed timeline somewhere in this one...

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA

35. Letter

It was 3 in the morning, and 2nd Lt. Riza Hawkeye couldn't sleep. She listened to Hayate's even breathing, trying to calm herself. Plip. Her faucet dripped. Plip. She couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Her stove was off, Hayate had water if he wanted it, and all her lights were on. But something felt just… not right.

She was jolted out of her ponderings by a knock on her front door, soft at first, then pounding and insistent. Pulling on her terrycloth bathrobe and worn slippers, she padded to the door. Peering through the peephole, she was startled to see Breda, and upon opening the door, Havoc too. For a few seconds, she just stared at them. Breda's face was grimmer than she'd ever seen it; Havoc was clutching a letter, and obviously shaking in his wheelchair. Breda saluted smartly, his eyes suspiciously wet. He held out an open letter, like the one Havoc was holding, and said a single name.

"Mustang."

Riza's breath caught in her throat, and with trembling hands, she reached for the letter and tore it roughly from its envelope.

_Ms. Riza Hawkeye,_

_We regret to inform you…_

Her fingers acted on their own and dropped the hateful letter as though it had burned her, but instead she felt suddenly cold. Her arms half raised as if to ward off a blow, she stumbled backward. She wanted to scream, but her voice seemed to have left her, and all she could do was make little panting noises. He mouth suddenly dry, she licked her lips and stared wide-eyed at Havoc and Breda. Wordlessly, Breda held out a dirty pair of white gloves with an alchemist array on the back. Suddenly, everything sunk in, and she just had time to let out a single cry.

"NO!"

Then her legs gave way beneath her, and the world faded into the shadows she was so desperately afraid of.


	6. Necrophobia

a.n.: necrophobia is the fear of death.

Disclaimer: If I own FMA, it would not be called _fan_fiction.

6. Death

Necrophobia

Roy Mustang is not afraid of many things. Heights do not faze him, and he has spilled far too much blood to be squeamish of it. While he avoids water, he is not frightened of it. He simply does not like to be useless. Perhaps that is one of the things he does fear, being useless, but it is not a true phobia. No, Roy Mustang does not fear much. And one would think that would make him cocky, make him overestimate himself. But it doesn't, and for one reason: his one fear is more terrifying than a million other phobias put together. His fear is death.

Yes, all human beings are afraid of death, and the uncertainty that follows it. After all, people fear the unknown, and nothing is more mysterious than death. But, oddly enough, Roy Mustang is not truly afraid of dying. He knows he will probably die long before his time, and most certainly of unnatural causes. He almost looks forward to it, the eternity of nothingness, a final peaceful sleep. Roy's life is obviously not governed by the fact that he will one day die.

Instead, he is afraid of his death. Not the pain, nor the regrets. Roy Mustang is afraid because he knows that when the final trigger is pulled, when the final scream is screamed, when the final fall is fallen, someone else will be there to take the blow for him. Another person will be there to step in the path of the bullet, to walk the plank in his stead. Amber eyes will close that day, rather than black ones. Roy has no doubt that the woman he loves will die before him. And so he lives in terror.


	7. Autophobia

a.n.: kind of a companion to Necrophobia, but not necessary to read that first. Autophobia is the fear of being alone.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, and I was going to say something witty but I forgot it.

74. Great distance

Autophobia

Riza is the Fuhrer's assistant, and she is scared. Not just of the Fuhrer. He is terrifying, with his Ultimate Eye, but there is pity mixed with her fear because she knows what a horrible life he has had. Not just of Pride. True, Pride is terrifying, but there is hysteria amplifying her terror, hysteria that echoes of days spent lying on her stomach in the shadows of her father's office. No, Riza is scared of forgetting.

She is scared she will forget that he is allergic to shellfish.

She is scared she will forget his middle name.

She is scared she will forget the way he takes his coffee.

She is scared she will forget the exact shape of Roy's eyes,

She is scared she will forget his signature smirk.

She is scared she will forget the way he drools when sleeping.

She is scared she will forget his bad habit of picking at his cuticles when he is nervous.

She is scared she will forget the insignia on his gloves, so scared that she studies her back in the mirror every day.

She is scared she will forget how his back looked as he walked away from Hughes's grave.

She is scared she will forget the tone of his voice when he said he was glad she was alive.

She is scared she will forget how he gives Hayate a biscuit whenever he sees him.

She is scared she will forget how incredibly tender he is with Elysia.

She is scared she will forget why she loves him.


	8. If Tombstones Could Talk

a.n.: I am perfectly aware that Christianity does not exist in Amestris, nor does Buddhism, Judaism, or any other type of religion we know. But I thought it appropriate to include some bible verses on gravestones. Oh, and I most certainly am not trying to sell anyone religion. I'm not even Christian myself.

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA. I do, however, own the English homework I should be doing at the moment.

If tombstones could talk, Riza Hawkeye wonders what they would say. Perhaps _Alice Henson, Devoted Wife and Mother_ would give her life's story. Or maybe _Kevin Poltman, Friend to All that Knew Him_ would apologize for some secret wrongdoing he never confessed. Maybe _Jamie Topper, 23.3 –He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the path of righteousness for his names sake-_ would pray. Would _Baby Topper, 18.3 -Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven-_ cry for its mother, not knowing that she was beside him? Would _Lillian Topper, 19.2 -What is thy mother? A lioness: she lay down among lions- _comfort her crying child? A lioness- it was a strange passage to put on a tombstone. Then again, she had never understood why people put the bible on their tombstones. As a show of devotion? To what god? Any god there had ever been was sure to have abandoned this world eons ago. _Judith McKenzie_. Riza wondered what she would say. Just a name, no indication of who she was or what impact she had on the world.Perhaps Judith would remain silent.

Jogging through the cemetery, names and dates flashing by, each a reminder of a person who no longer existed. Riza ran until she was flat out sprinting, muddying her ankle-length black skirt, her hair coming free from its clip and streaming out behind her. Suddenly her heel broke and sent her tumbling into _Harvey Goldman, a Good Man_. She curled into the fetal position and buried her face in her knees. Taking several shuddering breathes, she tried to calm herself. She ripped off her black satin shoes, throwing them as far away as she could. Rising to her feet, she limped over to the one tombstone that she knew what it would say if it could speak.

_Roy Mustang_

_Colonel, Comrade, and Friend_

Probably something along the lines of "I love you."


	9. Murderer

20. Murderer

Riza Hawkeye has always known she will die because of Roy, and she will take her last breathe by choice. She knows that when a trigger is pulled, she will take the bullet without hesitation. She thinks it only fair. If Roy is her life, it is fitting he should be her death. She has always known Roy will kill her. Some would say he is her drug, addicting and consuming, and most of all fatal. She would argue that he is not her drug; he is her medication keeping her alive. At 14, her back newly tattooed and aching, he was the one who eased the blades away from her wrists. During Ishbal, his solitary presence was the only thing keeping her alive. Without him, she would have been dead long ago. And for him she not only _would_ die, but _will_ die. If Roy succeeds in becoming the Fuhrer, he will be put to death eventually. He knows this. She knows this. She will probably be legally spared, prison for life may be her reward for saving the world. Legally spared, that is. She knows when Roy dies, she will die too. Once his trigger is pulled, hers will be too, in her small apartment miles away. She likes to envision the gunshots going off at exactly the same moment across space; their death's merging into one. It isn't that she thinks she will drift up to heaven where he will wait with open arms, no, she doesn't believe in life after death. She won't die to be with him. She'll die so she doesn't have to be without him.


	10. Birds

Its late one night, and she is lying with her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat

a.n.: the quote is from The Notebook, the saddest movie in the world, which I love with a passion.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Notebook or FMA

40. Halves

Bird

It is late one night, and she is lying in bed with her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. He is peacefully stroking her hair. In the distance, the beat of a bass can be faintly heard. A passing car briefly shakes their windows and illuminates their peaceful faces. She looks up at him.

"Roy, do you think I could have been a bird in a past life?"

Roy smiles, and, looking at Riza, with her soft hair falling over her shoulders, thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful.

"I think you could have been anything you wanted."

"Do you think you could have been a bird?"

He leans to kiss her.

"If you were a bird, I was a bird." He whispers into her mouth. Then, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, they drift off to sleep.


	11. Dress

Riza Hawkeye is not known as a typically feminine woman

a.n.: I was shopping for my graduation dress when I got this idea, just a cute little drabbot (sorry MSD, I'm using your word). It's fairly long, so let me know if you think it should be its own story.

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA. Or a graduation dress, annoyingly enough.

92. Happiness

Dress

Riza Hawkeye is not known as a typically feminine woman. She does not dislike her body; she simply feels that calling attention to herself is unnecessary. She doesn't wear nail polish or- God forbid- miniskirts, and her hair is always in a neat bun with a simple clip. She has never much liked the color pink, instead preferring the ambiguous grey or the occasional soft blue. She does not indulge in frippery and despises small talk. Her earrings are perhaps her one touchstone of femininity, the base she is centering her womanhood around. Small, practical, yet chic. They match her. However, she has one ritual that she would furiously deny if ever confronted with.

When she was sixteen, her first year at the Academy, there was a winter ball. She hadn't been planning on going, but then some of her classmates had kidnapped her and dragged her shopping with them. She had been saving her money with no real purpose for a while, so she had a fair bit, and did not particularly mind a bit of good old-fashioned shopping fun. Sitting outside the fitting room, a dress caught her eye. It was shoved into a far corner on an old rack, looking rather forlorn and neglected, and she went over to it out of curiosity. Pulling the dress off its hanger, she had grimaced. It was powder blue, but had a large brown stain down the front of it, and looked as though it would fit several elephants. The fabric was moth-eaten and worn, and the clasp and zipper were broken. It looked as though it was once been long-sleeved, but due to some accident one of the sleeves was torn off at the shoulder, giving it a lopsided air. A drooping blue ratty sash wound around it, and it was possibly the ugliest article of clothing Riza had ever seen. She bought it, and despite the raised eyebrows of her friends, was very happy with her purchase.

Later that evening, sitting in her dorm, she laid the dress out on her bed with a critical eye. Cut here, tuck there, could she do it? Her mother had taught her to sew before she died, and Riza was fairly handy with a needle. So, pushing back her sleeves, she set to work. Sitting in her dorm, late at night, with her bed curtains closed, she worked feverishly, and wasn't sure why. She had nowhere to wear the dress besides the ball, and was fairly certain she would mess it up anyways, but something told her to keep going.

The night of the ball arrived, and Riza was finished. She put on the dress and long, elbow length gloves, then a white mask for fun, and slipped downstairs to the ball. Oh, how alive she felt! Whirling through the crowd, drinking far too much punch (which she learned the next day had been alcoholic, though the warning came a little late), she had had the night of her life. And, at midnight, at the last song, Roy had come to dance with her. She was sure he had simply thought it a formality, dancing with his old teacher's daughter, but she had enjoyed it all the same. One, two, three, one, they danced as two porcelain figurines trapped in time, their feet in perfect rhythm, half the dance floor stopped to watch them in their passionate synchronization. Giggling through boundaries, twisting through sanity, they waltzed.

The night ended, as all nights must, and the students returned to their dorms to spectacular hangovers the next day. Riza and Roy in their beds slept peacefully, and a mirage of color flooded their dreaming minds. Time passed by. Eventually Roy graduated, then she did, and she was called to Ishbal. Life went on, and dreams aged.

But once a year, on New Years Eve, Riza climbs a tall ladder to reach the box in the corner of the top shelf in her closet. She pulls out the gown, and dusts it off, bringing it to her nose to inhale the scent of lavender and jasmine that still clings to it, even if only in memories. She pats its puffed sleeves, smiles at its scalloped edges and daring neckline. She puts it on, reflecting on how it truly is a horrid contraption, one of those old dresses that require a proper hoop skirt and corset. Adjusting it over the wire hoop, she slides on her elbow length gloves and her mother's sapphire necklace, lets her hair down and curls it. She dabs rose water on the insides of her wrists, and inserts a Viennese waltz into her gramophone. First she only nods her head to the music, then taps her foot, then rocks back and forth. Then she begins. Whirling with an invisible partner, or sometimes Hayate, for one song, she is sixteen again. And across town, at one of the Hughes's New Years parties, counting down from ten (shots of whiskey) until the New Year begins, Roy gets the oddest feeling that Riza is dancing.


	12. Dreams

He dreamt he was killing her

a.n.: I was putting my sister to bed when this idea came to me. That probably says something fairly morbid about my relationship with my sister, but ah well. I mean, Knox can't be the only one who has bad dreams. I may continue this in the next drabble, lemme know what you think. (I'm sorry by the way, this drabble got a little emo. About halfway in I basically flipped a coin for a happy/sad ending. It landed on sad.)

Disclaimer: _fan_ficiton

71. Premonition

Dreams

He dreamt he was killing her. His hands wrapped around her slender neck, his fingers digging into her pale skin, leaving purple bruises. Her face was beginning to turn blue as Riza beat desperately at his death grip. Then, her body tensed for a millisecond. She froze, her eyes boring into his, accusing, hating, loving, but worst of all, forgiving. And she went limp.

And Roy awoke to find that not all nightmares take place while dreaming. Because it was true, he _did_ have his hands around her neck, her face a tomato red while she pulled weakly, trying to loosen his fingers. He released her in horror, scrambling away from her, falling out of the bed to scrabble into the farthest corner of the room, as far away from her as he could get. Riza collapsed onto her hands, sucking in giant, choking breaths. Roy backed into the wall, then raised his hands in front of him. Hands. His hands. Wrapped around her neck. He fell to his knees and retching, spitting acidic bile onto their carpet. She sat up and reached a timid hand toward him.

"Roy?"

"Stay away from me!" he snarled gutturally. She couldn't come near, he'd hurt her again. She might really die the next time. He couldn't let that happen. Wouldn't let it happen, he'd kill himself before he got a chance to hurt her…

"Are you ok?" It was a stupid question and she knew it, but what else was there to say? She tentatively rose from the bed to place a hand on his back. He whirled around and smacked her hand away, then stared horrified again at what he'd done.

"I told you to stay away! Stay away, dammit, I'm going to hurt you…" He choked miserably.

"But Roy…"

"No! Stay away! I can't let you get hurt! I'll hurt myself before I let you suffer!"

Suddenly Riza straightened up, and her eyes flashed.

"No. No you won't Roy."

"Yes! Yes I will!"

"No. You won't. I won't let you. I'd rather you hurt me than have you hurt yourself. Roy, don't you get it? It hurts more to see you suffer than to be in pain myself! I love you, Roy, and I'd rather die 10 times over than to watch you die once!"

"I can't hurt the people I love!"

"When will you understand, Roy! I love you! I need you!"

She paused.

"Promise me you'll stay with me?"

He stared at her, mute.

"Please, Roy?"

He remained silent.

"Promise me, dammit!"

He still wouldn't talk.

"Say something!" She burst out. "Tell me you love me!"

He sat still.

"Roy! Either say it, or tell me the truth! Either say it, or _tell me you don't love me!_"

"Riza…"

"NO! SAY IT! TELL ME YOU DON'T LOVE ME!" She screamed, flying at him, beating his chest with her fists.

"Is that what you want?" He asked quietly.

"No, Roy, it isn't, I just want you to be reasonable! I just want you to get back into bed and make love to me and sleep peacefully. I just want the children we always planned on having to grow up with loving parents. But I'll give all of that away, all my dreams and hopes and wishes I've kept stored up for you, I'll throw it away, if only it would make you happy!" She stared into his eyes.

"Would it?" She spat.

He stared at her, her face red, hair wild, mussed in such a way he could see the tattoo on her naked back, tiny tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She was beautiful in a way he couldn't even begin to comprehend. He didn't deserve her. He felt like this life was a dream. And some time, he wouldn't wake up soon enough, and she'd die. He'd strangle her, stab her, beat her, kill her. And she'd be dead. Because of him.

"Roy?" Her voice cracked.

He reached for his pants, while she sat still.

"Roy! What are you doing?"

He didn't reply.

"Roy! Roy, I didn't mean it! You know that!"

He put on his jacket.

"Oh God Roy, please don't do this-" He pressed a finger over her mouth, then kissed her.

"I love you, Riza. Always have. Always will."

And he left.

And Riza knew he was gone for good.


	13. Obvious

a.n. This takes place when Gluttony is battling Ling, Ed, and Al. Roy, Knox, and Riza drive away. They've dropped Knox at home, and are driving to a safe place. I don't really like this one, not sure why.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

If I Die

Obvious

"Lieutenant?" Roy asks, staring blindy out the car window.

"Yes, sir?" Her reply is sharp and brisk. They have places to be and people to warn. Now is not the time for chitchat.

"What would you do if I died?"

"Sir, now is perhaps not the best of times-"

"Answer the damn question!" He snaps.

Her jaw clenches, and her fists tighten on the steering wheel, turning her knuckles white. She remains silent. He stares at her a moment, and recalls the battle with Lust. How, before she had known he was in the room, he had seen her. Collapsed on the ground, clutching her gun like a security blanket. Completely and utterly broken. And he realizes he doesn't have to ask what she would do if he died. He already knows.


	14. Love Is

He was dying, and he knew it, and she knew it too

a.n.: I got this idea from 'What Sarah Said' by Death Cab for Cutie, the fawsomest band. Wow, I sound really… fangirlish, don't I. But what can I say, I love them. I originally wrote this in my journal on the plane but then I left my journal on the plane (because I'm so intelligent), so I had to rewrite this from memory. I know, I'm sorry, it's so uber depressing. My GF just dumped me. And my kitten just died.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

49. Cold Hands

Love Is

He was dying, and he knew it, and she knew it too. Glancing down at his depleted form, Roy chuckled grimly. Two months ago he weighed 180 lbs. Now he clocked in at around 100. His chuckle turned into coughing, and his weak frame was wracked with wrenching pain as he spat a mouthful of black blood onto the hospital sheets. Riza caught him as he nearly tumbled from the cot, then rubbed a circle on his back and wiped the spittle and blood from the corner of his mouth.

"Don't." He looked away from her.

She paid him no mind, and began smoothing his hair.

"I said don't!" he lashed out at her, striking her hand away. She looked at him, startled, and his eyes filled with guilt.

"Leave." He mumbled, his head still turned away.

"No."

"Go!"

"No." Her face was set.

"Just leave! I don't want you to see me like this!" He was between anger and guilt. Angry at her for staying, at himself for dying, and angry at their love. Guilty for causing her such pain.

"I'm not going anywhere." Her voice was soft but firm.

"Please, Riza. This isn't how I want you to remember me!" He was pleading by then, and tried to push her away, but found that he wasn't strong enough. She didn't say a word.

"Riza. Leave. Do you think I can stand to cause you another second of pain? Just go. Get out of here, I refuse to hurt you any more!"

"Roy, I'm not leaving."

"And why the hell not?" He choked, suddenly furious. Couldn't she see that he couldn't bear it anymore? He could see the terror in her trembling hands and hysteria in her eyes, and it was torture.

"In sickness or in health, was it?"

"This has nothing to do with that! This has nothing to do with love!"

"This has everything to do with love. Why don't you get it? You're dying. I know that, and it's tearing me apart. Yes, this hurts beyond the definition of pain, and yes, I'd rather die myself. But I'm going to stay right here, with you. Because I love you. And I love you enough to watch you die."

"But who'll be left to watch _you_ die?" he whispered, pulling himself closer to her.

She said nothing, just clenched his hand tightly. His world was fading now, colors evaporating, and a black dust was settling over his vision. Each breathe became a struggle.

"Riza…" The heart monitor in the corner began to flat line, and she felt his hand go limp. She reached over and closed his eyes, and thought of the loaded gun she kept in her dresser.


	15. When They Knew

a

a.n.: 1 A.M. fic. Haven't done one of these in a while….

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

When They Knew

18. I Don't Want To Realize

Hughes knew from the second he saw Riza in Ishbal. Or Roy's reaction to Riza, more specifically. His eyes widened, his jaw tensed, his fists trembled. Hughes had never seen Roy look so obviously thrown off. And that was when it hit him.

Havoc knew the first time he walked into their office. The sexual tension literally hit him like a blow, and he nearly staggered.

Wrath knew at the first glance. He was particularly good at reading character, and it did not escape his notice the way, when handing her an object, Roy's hand lingered on Riza's a millisecond longer than necessary.

Winry knew once Riza said she had someone to protect. Perhaps it was woman's intuition. From the Lieutenant's face, Winry could tell she hated kill, and hated herself too. But she could also tell he had someone more important, someone more important than life itself to her.

Al knew during the battle with Lust. Riza whispered "no", and Lust grinned, and Al knew. He saw the Lieutenant's eyes widen in horror, disbelief, and fear. He heard her hysterical screams, and he knew without a doubt.

Lust knew once Riza had raised her head. She had expected curses, threats, perhaps even bargains. But the only thing she saw in that damn woman's face was love. And she knew. She knew that their love was the kind the people stories were written about, songs were sung about. And she knew they would burn for it, slowly and painfully. Lust smiled as she died.

Edward knew when Al told him about the Lust battle. Despite being absolutely tactless, even he wasn't that hopeless. The next time Roy had called him a shrimp, Edward has opened his mouth to reply, then Winry's face had drifted to his mind. And for the first time in his life, Edward behaved civilly toward Roy Mustang.

Riza knew the first time he saw her back. He did not gasp in horror, disgust, or revulsion like she had feared. Instead, he had put out a hesitant hand and traced the outer circle with a finger. "It's beautiful. Don't hate it." He had said. "Keep your innocence for a little while longer."

Roy knew when he was stormed into the room with Lust and burnt her to a crisp. He knew from his Lieutenant's fetal position, how she clutched her gun like a safety blanket. And he knew from the way he felt something in his chest break.

And Truth? Truth knew all along. After all, he was the one who had planned it in the first place.

Right?


	16. Circle

a

a.n.: this makes no sense. I apologize. hits self over head with frying pan He's OOC, it's stupid, and it's midnight where I am, and I have a VERY busy day tomorrow.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

43. Wind

Circle

He runs his fingers through the fine grey dust, unsure as to how he is supposed to feel about this. Was burning her final act of loyalty? Was it supposed to symbolize something? Or was it simply because she knew he wouldn't have been able to stand the thought of his Lieutenant, trapped underground? In the end, he concludes, it doesn't really matter. He claimed she wanted her ashes in an urn, though she had specified that she wanted them scattered. It was selfish of him. He knew that, but how else was he supposed to get a final moment alone with her?

"Riza…" He whispers. With one motion, he empties the box into the river. Fire into water, ying into yang. She becomes one with the earth. However, at the last second, the wind shifts. It picks up her ashes a millimeter from the water's surface, and carries them away. He smiles, and turns to leave. For while the wind blows things away, it also blows change in. And one day, he knows that he'll be blown back to her.


	17. Romeo & Juliet

A

A.N.: Shakespeare now exists in Amestris. Call it AU if you really want, except that nothing change besides Shakespeare existing. And I'm hecka sorry this got so emo. I've been incorporating nature into my fics a lot, I've noticed, and I'm not sure why. I apologize? Sigh, I made myself cry with this one. I'm not supposed to do that, I promised myself, especially since I _hate_ it when authors are all "Zomfg, I cried so hard at this one, read it and you'll see why!" but… I just couldn't help it! I'm really sorry.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction, on FMA and Romeo & Juliet.

Romeo and Juliet

60. At The Window

It was far too late for him to be out, and he should have been home hours ago. But he had been reluctant to leave the warm bar to stumble back to his frigid apartment, with its smell of mildew, stained walls, and caterwauling cats beneath his window. He didn't want to go home and face the emptiness yet again, didn't want to have to deal with the loneliness that always settled into the pit of his stomach, heavy as a chunk of granite. So he stayed later than he should have, trying to ease his internal chill with shot after shot of brandy, except it didn't work particularly well, so he had finally given up, and headed out the door to brave the cold night air. Coincidently (no, not coincidently, he had probably planned it from the start, but he was too drunk to remember now), his route home has taken him right under her window. She had chosen that particular moment to step in front of the curtains and gaze out at the night, a cup of tea in hand. He paused, and stopped in to middle of the street to look, just to simply _see_ her. Their eyes met. She leaned on the windowsill, never breaking eye contact, and he wryly remembered the balcony scene in Romeo & Juliet. 

"It is my lady, O, it is my love!  
O that she knew she were!  
She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?" He muttered to himself, and was abruptly flooded with emotion. Not joy, nor sorrow, not an emotion at all, but the farthest thing from apathy. Like Romeo and Juliet, they would play the roles cast for them. Like Romeo and Juliet, they would probably die for each other, in the end. But unlike Romeo and Juliet, they would not spend eternity in heaven together. Instead, they would be the wind in the trees and the sound of the ocean, the feeling of summer rain and the crackling of a bonfire. Like Romeo and Juliet, they were lovers doomed by Fate. But unlike Romeo and Juliet, they would be happiest when they were finally at rest, next to each other in a quiet cemetery, with willow trees and graves choked with weeds, with the sun shining and the rain falling, and with time passing by.


	18. Done

a

a.n.: I don't even know how to begin to explain this, so just flame me instead, ok? This can be looked at as either Riza's POV after Roy leaves for the North (in the movie) or, as I prefer, a continuation of Dreams, a previous drabble. I had far too much fun fcking with the font on this….

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

69. Are You Satisfied?

Done

She smiled as she burned his pictures, then let the ashes be blown out by the wind. He'd left through that door, and she'd tossed the rest of him out it as well. His own damn fault

_he'd told her it was for the best, that he loved her_

that she was done with him. He loved her, and she loved him, once, and perhaps there could have been hope for their love again, but she was sick of it. Sick of

_then he'd left, closing the door quietly behind him, as though he didn't even have enough emotion left to slam it_

their pattern, the way they lived. He (or occasionally she) would become withdrawn and self-loathing, screaming in their sleep, attacking the other upon awakening

_and she had felt oddly empty, the way you feel when a piece of music you're listening to is interrupted halfway, she was left without closure, simply mailed his belongings to him, all because he hadn't slammed the door_

their relationship would cease to function, their feelings clouded by guilt and apathy, then he would leave

_he'd come back, she knew, because he always did, begging forgiveness, kissing her gently, but never promising for it never to happen again, because they both knew it would, but he'd come back, because she was the rain that watered his earth, and he was the clouds in her sky_

without slamming the door, and she'd be left alone in the middle of the floor, sometimes clothed, sometimes not, clutching a blanket, a telephone, a random object, trying to reason it out

_they loved each other, but they hated their love_

trying to figure out why, just once, he couldn't stay

_she'd sworn to protect him, and protect him she would, _

then deciding it didn't matter

_she'd rip anyone who hurt him to shreds_

but she'd always saved the pictures of him, since she knew he would be back, except for this time

_she'd kill anyone who hurt him_

because

_and by the gods,_

he'd eventually just hurt himself and she'd decided when he hurt himself

_when he hurt himself_

**she'd hurt him too.**


	19. What Now?

a

a.n.: shoots self I'm. so. eternally. sorry. It's so clichéd and stupid and I should go die in a corner slowly and painfully. I've decided to turn "Dreams" and "Done" into a series titled Family Life. I have a vague suspicion that that is a name of a TV show, but I don't care. Basically, this is what their life would be like as a family. Let's say this takes place after Roy becomes Fuhrer/is dishonorably discharged from the military. No, this is obviously not the ending, further drabbles to come. Keep in mind, this is not an _easy_ life. So, though this is clichéd at the moment, I can promise you that not all family stories have a happy ending…

disclaimer: _fan_fiction

93. Shackles

What Now?

She was puking her guts out into her toilet, or at least, what was left of them. She hadn't even eaten breakfast. How the hell was there anything left to cough up? She'd been vomiting for nine mornings, and she couldn't figure out what the hell was wrong with her. She'd be wishing for death around 9, then up and feeling fine again by 11. At first she'd thought it was the flu, but what kind of flu only strikes in the morning? Unless it was… She didn't have time for this. She'd let him go, and he'd gone. He couldn't be back, not like this. No, it couldn't be, it _wasn't_. She stood, leaning against the sink for support. It was just a strange type of the flu. That was all. She tried to take a step, but was overcome with nausea, and found herself crouched by the toilet again.

Well, it couldn't _hurt_ to buy a pregnancy test…

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Positive. She blinked, then shook it again. Still positive. Shook it some more. It remained positive, the little pink plus sign glaring up at her maliciously. She threw it angrily into the trash can, then put her head in her hands. She'd heard about false positives, but she'd taken three, and three couldn't be wrong…

"Dammit!" She spat. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

_Just_ when she'd let him go, _just_ when she thought she might have a chance of moving on, he had to come back again. That was him, always sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted. She raised her head to stare at the whitewashed ceiling, and sighed.

"Well, Mustang. What now?"


	20. UnPlanned Parenthood

a.n.: I have had a revelation! I NOW WRITE TO PLEASE ME! So, while this piece may suck, it makes _me_ happy. And I'm glad. Course, concrit is ALWAYS appreciated. Written to celebrate my muse (aka BFF) returning from France.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

47. In the dead of the night

Planning Parenthood… Or Not

Riza stared at the receiver in her hand. Just seven buttons. That's all. How hard could it be? She glanced down again at the pregnancy test, hoping against hope it had changed somehow. Seven buttons. God, how was she supposed to tell him? Did she even have to tell him? After all, he was the one who'd left. But she knew she had to. A father has a right to his children… She shuddered at that word. Father. She was completely unprepared for this. She tried to imagine herself as a mother, and couldn't. All she could picture was the small Ishbalan boy screaming for his mother twelve years ago. She couldn't do this… There was always abortion or adoption, she supposed. But placing her hand directly below her bellybutton and feeling the warmth, knowing there was another living being inside her contributing to that warmth, she couldn't _not_ do this. Seven numbers. Just seven numbers. She dialed, then hung up. Picked up the phone. Dialed again. It rang once. Maybe he wouldn't be home… It rang twice. He picked up in the middle of the third ring.

"Hello?" His voice was hoarse and he sounded groggy. She'd probably woken him, calling him at this hour…

"Hello?" He asked again when she was silent.

"Roy…" she whispered, and she heard him sit up.

"Riza? What's wrong?" Not a word about their argument, typical Roy. It was sweet how he could tell she wasn't alright just by one word, though.

"Roy, I need to talk to you. Come to my apartment." She said quietly, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Now? It's 2 in the morn-" She hung up. He'd be there.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Ten minutes later, he was banging on the door, the hell with the neighbors. She opened it quickly, pulling him inside, then locking the door behind her. He looked at her searchingly, his worried face tired, his hair mussed

"Roy-" She tried to speak, but found only his name would come out.

"Riza?" He took a shaky step toward her, and hesitantly reached out a hand.

"Roy, I'm-" Dammit, she could do this! She _could _do this!

"What's wrong? Talk to me, Riza." He pleaded, scared.

"Roy, I'm pregnant." She burst out all at once, and he froze. Shock, anger, guilt, emotions flitted across his face. Then he gave a slow smile, and she could see a tear in the corner of his eye.

"Thank God, Riza. I'm happy Riza, so happy…" He choked, and argument be damned, differences be damned, difficulties be damned, she flew into his arms.


	21. Bloody Tears

a

a.n.: ZOMFG OK YAY is pretty much what I have to say. See, me and my GF had been on the rocks for a while and she finally dumped me for good, and I was hella depressed, so I couldn't write. I would sit there and stare at a blank Word document and be sad. I missed writing so much, but I just _couldn't_, somehow. Then I was talking with Rissy about… well, never mind what about, but she erased my block! It was gone, simple as that! So I now say- worship Rissy, for she is a writer's goddess. Also, this is out of the Family Life sequence.

Edit: GYAH my tenses died. They do that when im stressed, which I am. Sorry, I fixed them.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

3. Battlefield

Bloody Tears

She knew what had been different about that one. It had looked at her. She'd set her sights on it, and it has turned its small white head toward her. And it had seen her, this tiny baby, this infant she was about to kill. It had _seen_ her, not just the murderer behind the rifle, but the girl- no, the woman behind the murderer behind the rifle's sights. Its piercing red eyes had pierced her armor, had make the tiniest of cracks in her shell of duty. And the crack had widened, had spread, until she was nothing but cracks, until her existence was composed of negative space and what-ifs. She put her head in her trembling hands, and heard army boots shuffle toward her.

"Your first kid, huh?" She knew it was him without raising her head, but remained mute. What was there to say? That she was sorry? It was trite, and it wasn't even true. She was past sorry, too trapped in her worthless cage of apathy to manage to give a damn.

"It's rough." He said quietly, and she knew he's staring at his shoes, unsure of what else to say. She made a sort of choking sound, then began to cry in earnest. Giant sobs wracked her depleted form, and he put an arm around her in understanding silence. She eventually calmed down, and raised her tearstained face to the red Ishbalan sun. But when she wiped her cheeks, they were so stained with grime and gore, she couldn't tell if she was crying blood or tears.


	22. Good Kind Of Pain

a

a.n.: I've gone insane. Look, I don't understand this one myself, but somehow, it works for me. herself could be a part of Riza, or nobody at all. This is totally up for interpretation. In fact, while you're at it, my whole life is up for interpretation. Reviews please?

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

28. Pain and Wounds

Good Kind Of Pain

Take it back, she says, unsure of who she is talking to. Alone in her apartment, perhaps she is talking to herself, perhaps no one. Take it back, she demands. I hate it. I hate this thing inside my chest, gnawing at my collected exterior.

Why should I take it back? herself answers with a question, giving a small half smile.

I hate it, Riza answers, staring down at her lap. I hate the way it beats and beats, a changing rhythm. I hate the way it stops when he's in danger. I can't stand it.

Why do you hate those things? herself wants to know.

They mean something I don't have time for. I don't have time for anything but my mission. People are in pain, and it's my fault. I don't have time for something like this, and it has no place within me. Monsters don't deserve happiness.

Who are you to decide who deserves happiness? herself snaps. You're just adding arrogance to your sins. It isn't up to you who is happy or why, just be glad that you have the chance.

But I _don't_ have the chance, Riza interrupts. I've got no time, no place, and no damn _room_ in there for him.

But he's in there all the same. herself reminds her, smirking slightly.

Take it back. Riza pleads one last time. Please, take it back. My heart, please. It hurts too much.

herself smiles gently, sadly. But my dear, she says at last. Oh, my love, it may be hard to see now. But that is a _good_ kind of hurt.


	23. Hell

a

a.n.: This is supposed to be the moment when Riza decides to follow Roy, dunno if I portrayed that well. Happy belated RoyAi Day.

Disclaimer: _fanfiction_

58. Before Falling Asleep

Hell

It had been windy that day, and the wind had swept the red desert dust up into the air, blanketing the world with a reddish haze. Up in her sniper's tower, the air was stale and choking, the wind sweeping the plains below, the air lying thick in Riza's lungs. Aim, fire, fall, reload. It had a nice rhythm to it, even in the stagnant heat. Aim, fire, fall, reload. She could barely see the figures through the dust. Aim, fire, fall, reload. She set her sights on a white-haired figure wrapped in an old grey cloak. Aim, fire, fall, reloa- Wait. No, no, oh no, no, no, please no…. the shot had hit the man square in the middle of his back, and the impact had driven him face forward into the dirt, ripping his cloak from his body. To reveal sandy brown hair. And a blue uniform. And Riza realized far too late that his white Ishbalan hair had only been the hood of his old grey blanket, that he was a soldier himself. She dropped her rifle with shaking hands, and bit her fist to stifle screams. She was sick of killing, so sick of killing. Scrambling down the steps from her tower, she sprinted towards the fallen figure. Kneeling by the body, she rolled him over to face her, to find him still alive, barely. Maybe her shot hadn't hit him fatally, maybe she could still save him… But Riza knew it was crap, she'd never missed a shot before, she wasn't going to start now. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes rolled wildly to meet hers.

"I'm sorry, so sorry…" She stammered, trying to rip open his shirt to assess the damage. He caught her hand.

"You'll be fine, I promise-" She muttered desperately, moving his hand off hers.

"Bullshit. I'm dying." He wheezed, never breaking eye contact with her. She finally managed to tear his shirt open, and knew it to be true. The bullet has entered a little to the left of his lower spine, and exited through the stomach. His stomach acids were now slowly seeping into his system. He was right, he had no chance. He was dying, with around 10 minutes to live.

"I'm sorry, so damn sorry-" She said again.

"Don't be." He replied, and she stared at him. "It's war, darlin'. We're all gonna die one way or another."

"But I shot you, I killed you-" She insisted, searching his face for a shadow of anger, the smallest bit of hatred, and finding none. He shrugged as best he could, then winced.

"We'll all die sometime. Guess today is my lucky day." She put her head down, and felt her eyes grow hot. Why couldn't he hate her, it'd be so much easier… She wanted to scream at him, beg him to loathe her, to despise her and curse her with his final breaths. Instead, she gently wiped the blood off the corners of his mouth, and took his hand. They sat in silence for a minute, his breathing growing more and more labored.

"Don't do it." He muttered finally, and she looked up at him. "You're the type to turn yourself in for this. Don't do it."

"I have to, I killed a comrade-"

"No such things as comrades out here. Just the enemy and those who look like it."

"But I've killed you, and I've killed so many, so many innocents…"

"We're all damned by now. Whatcha gonna do about it? You've got two choices. You can cry yourself to sleep for the rest of eternity. Or you can do something about it. Just because we're all past redemption doesn't mean we should ever give up trying for it. Fix this world. You might be past hope, but your children don't have to be."

"I can't, I'm not strong enough. I should just kill myself right now, then it'd all be over." She bursts out.

"Fine, kill yourself. Not gonna do much. You're already a murderer, you wanna add selfish to that? Maybe you got the guts to pull your own trigger, but you ain't got the morals to."

"I can't do what you're asking me, I just can't-"

"So don't."

She meets his piercing blue gaze, and he smiles.

"I'll see you in hell, then." He whispers sadly, and a tear trickles out of the corner of her eye. Then he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his hand goes limp. She leans down and closes his eyes, then rises to her feet.

"Fuck it all." She says, and heads off to find Mustang.


	24. Dance

It's something like three in the morning, but Hawkeye can't sleep

a.n.: Man, I haven't written in forever! Feels good to be back in the swing of things. Sorry about all my other stories, I swear I'm working on them. Good things take time, and bad things take even more time. Just something quick that popped into my head. Ishbal!angst seems to have taken over my brain.

Disclaimer: _fanfiction_

75. Why?

Dance

It's something like three in the morning, but Hawkeye can't sleep. The desert wind is howling too loudly, and the nightly chill has settled too deep into her soul to be eradicated with a simple wool blanket. Sitting by the fire with a mug of hot only-the-devil-knows-what, the embers seem to hold a secret peace within horror.

"You too, huh." Hughes's rough voice interrupts her quiet inner torture, and she is unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. When you hurt, you know you're alive.

He sits down next to her uninvited, but this she can understand. Human contact, comfort, it's what they all long for in this world of dry heat and frigid nights.

"Clear sky." He remarks, if only to break the silence. It _is_ true, the night is particularly clear. Then again, there aren't many clouds in the desert. Hawkeye glances up at the starry expanse above, and feels extreme annoyance.

"Like the stars give a fuck." She mutters, glaring into the fire again.

"Maybe they give more of a fuck then we give them credit for." Hughes muses.

"Don't you try and lecture me with all that religion crap. If there was a God, do you think we'd be out here killing innocent people?" She snaps, but the constant gusts and cool sand have leeched her of any real malice toward anyone but herself.

"Never said there was a God. Just that maybe as we look at the stars, they look back." He stares up at the night sky as though it holds answers.

"You drunk?" She questions, eyeing him.

"Probably. I wouldn't know anymore." He yawns, and then wraps his arms around his legs. They sit in empty silence.

"Hey, Hughes?" He is surprised by her tone of voice. It is quiet, almost vulnerable, a side of Riza Hawkeye he hasn't seen before.

"Yeah?"

"I shot a mother and her three children today."

"And I led a massacre on a temple, slaughtered people as they prayed. What's your point?" Maybe he'd care if he wasn't so numb, but it somehow no longer seems relevant.

"Why did I do it? Besides orders, past honour, where is my basic human conscience that should stop me from pulling the trigger?"

"It's all part of the dance, darling." He gives her a lopsided grin, then yawns again. "I'm going to try and sleep. Hope next time I see you, you aren't sprawled on a pile of rubble." He gives her a backward wave as he trudges into the night, leaving her alone again to try and disappear.

It isn't until the next day that his words really hit her. She tries to write them off as mere drunken babble, but they hold more weight than that. No one dances out here unless she is shooting at their feet. But in her sniper's tower, watching her victims fall one by one, she finally understands when she accidentally has Mustang in her sights.

This is their dance. This passionate sandstorm is their ballroom, their heavy treads a perverse form of grace. In this land of red sun and redder blood, they are waltzing endlessly among corpses. Her shots keep the tempo as his snaps mark the beat. Their song is one of gore and hatred, and their dance is sorrowful and crude. It's an abomination, a terror to watch and an even larger terror to take part in.

But that night is the first night that before drifting off to sleep, he says he loves her.


	25. Pillowtalk

She didn't know how late it was, only that it was late enough to be called early

a.n.: well, this started as a joke I made on the zomgfta royai forums, but then it just actually seemed to work.

disclaimer: _fan_fiction

21. Confessions

Pillowtalk

She doesn't know how late it is; only that it is late enough to be called early. The sun will rise in a few hours, but for the mean time, the desert is silent. She can feel his tension next to her, and she knows he isn't sleeping, but he does not speak. Suddenly, she is overwhelmed by loneliness. Trapped in a wasteland, killing all day, angsting all night. She is nothing but the average soldier.

So she breaks the code.

They have an unspoken agreement that once they enter the tent, all speaking stops. Aside from the occasional gasped command or muffled groan, silence prevails. It is necessary to their sanity, for sometimes one must accept the fact that one is a monster. Whether they would not or could not speak was never clarified. It was the same thing, in the long run. But drifting in the night that defied logic by being peaceful, Hawkeye opens her mouth and breaks the code.

"Roy." She whispers quietly. He will hear her, she is sure of that much.

"What is it?" Immediately he rolls over to face her, his eyes concerned.

"What's wrong? Are you ill?" This is the only plausible explanation for her treading on such taboo ground. Abruptly, she feels stupid. She has half a mind to tell him it was nothing, to go to sleep. But something stops her. So instead she says the first thing that comes into her head.

"It's a cold night."

"Riza, what the hell are you talking about?!" He snaps angrily at her. She's destroying him, word by word. She might almost take sadistic pleasure from it if she hadn't been falling apart herself.

"What are your sisters' names?" She begs softly. She is at the point where a shred of kindness will break her, but perhaps she needs to be broken.

"What the fuck? What the hell is going on here? You suddenly wanna talk? Feeling chatty?" He hisses back.

"I just-"

"Just what? Didn't get your thrills out on the field today?" That was a cheap shot, and he knows it. He feels rather than hears her sharp intake of breath, and she quickly turns away from him.

"Never mind. Goodnight." She mutters, and he can feel her quivering. He turns his back to hers as well, but the dreaded silence starts to get to him too. Or maybe that's the mangled shreds of his conscience.

"Eliza, Marie, and Tessa." He says, staring at the canvas wall in front of him.

"What?" She looks at him over her shoulder.

"My sisters. Eliza, Marie, and Tessa."

She rolls over to face him again, this time propping herself up on her elbows.

"How many years apart are you?" She asks, and he moves to look at her.

"Eliza is five years older, Marie is six, and Tessa is eight."

"Did they tease you a lot?"

"Nah, I was the baby of the family. They used to dress me up in girl's clothes, though."

She laughs for the first time in months. Encouraged by the idea that maybe he could make her a little bit happy, he continues.

"Apparently, one time I was so cute that a little boy proposed to me."

She giggles, actually giggles. He takes a moment to readjust his views on the world, because Riza Hawkeye just giggled.

"Riza, what did you want to be as an adult when you were little?" He questions, getting into the swing of things. She smiles.

"A queen. A widowed young queen left all alone to control a vast empire."

"Not a princess?"

"Princesses are silly. Queens are the ones who can change things." She insists firmly.

"And how exactly did her king die?"

"In a hunting accident. It was very tragic. One of his men accidentally shot him."

"You've spent a lot of time thinking about this." He states, raising an eyebrow.

"I had no friends when I was little. I'd pretend I had a lady-in-waiting named Jenny. She was my very best friend."

"Well, that's very…"

"Crazy?" She supplies.

"I was going to say creative." He chuckles, and she nearly cries tears of joy. They might be monsters, but at least they can still make-believe that they are human. They haven't lost the ability to lie yet. They talk in hushed tones until the wake-up call comes.

As she shivers under the cold shower in the chilly morning air, she wonders if tonight they might fall sleep in each others' arms.


	26. Idiot

Sum: He has always called her an idiot for following him, and she has always stood with her fists clenched at her sides, and known it to be true.

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

Warning: Lime. Run, little children, run far away.

79. Underwater no Futari (Underwater Together)

Idiot

"You're an idiot." He spits, his arms crossed. She had been washing her face when he had burst angrily into her tent unannounced, horror in his eyes.

"Riza, you are such an idiot." He repeats, glaring at her. She continues to wash her face.

"When I told you that I was in the military, when I told you that you could look me up if you had any trouble, I didn't mean that you should follow me into a goddamned war zone!" He yells, and she stares determinedly at the ground.

"Look at me." He orders, grabbing her chin and trying to force her eyes to meet his. She shuts them tightly.

"Damn it, Riza." His voice breaks, and releasing her, he turns away. She can't stand to see him like this, and she reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder.

He whirls around at her touch and suddenly he is kissing her and she is kissing him back, his mouth sucking greedily at hers. Her fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that she is sure it hurts. He bites her lip and she tastes blood. His hands are all over her, and their clothing is shed like the dry husks of insects. They fall backward onto the bed, and he kisses her stomach wetly, his arms around her, his nails digging into the monstrosity inked on her back.

When she comes, she comes in dry, hacking sobs, like she is choking on all the blood that has seeped into her fingers. Afterwards, he rolls away from her, and all she can see of him is his hair, damp with sweat, and his shaking back. She bites back hysterics. This wasn't how the first time was supposed to be. He was supposed to hold her, and tell her that he loved her, and she was supposed to fall asleep on his chest, lulled by his heartbeat.

He finally speaks, echoing her own thoughts.

"Hawkeye, you're an idiot."


	27. So I'm Crying

a.n.: hooray for break, and for Ishbal angst. I know it seems like I'm only capable of writing angst these days.... but I have an idea for an fairly angstless story, so never fear! -failed attempt at optimism-

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist and I can't be bothered to think of a witty disclaimer.

So I'm Crying

There was tension in the dry, hopeless air that day, Roy could feel it. Somewhere in the back of his head there had been a sort of a high buzzing, like a wire had been stretched taut and was vibrating incessantly. With every flame the wire grew tighter and with every scream the air became drier, dry enough to sting at the back of his throat. His spit tasted metallic and his head spun as the harsh desert wind crept through his tattered grey cloak. There was a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and the sun was reflecting off the pools of blood at his feet and searing his eyes. Something in him was about to snap, he could feel it as the flies began to land on the charred corpses, landing on his own flesh in their frenzy. The whole world was so still, the dog had stopped barking and he couldn't hear anything, not one single noise anywhere...

It was not uncommon for people to simply break in Ishbal, Roy had seen it often enough. The younger the soldier, the more likely it was, and he was thankful that Hawkeye had chosen apathy over empathy. Half the soldier fatalities were suicides with their own rifles, though the barrel was long enough that you had to pull the trigger with your toes, as Roy knew from observance. People fell, covered in red like autumn leaves, whilst soldiers snapped underfoot. There were two ways to break, Roy had noted, there were the screamers and the laughers, and he'd noticed that the screamers were taken to the medics' tent and not seen again.

The blood on the ground was soaking through the soles of his boots and Roy couldn't help himself, he began to chuckle. The corners of his mouth twisted up in a sardonic smile as he fell to his knees, giggling madly. He raised his arm and snapped, sending shock waves of fire out around him. Nearby buildings crumbled and a few people scurried out of them, mouse running towards a cat. He snapped again, and thought how he must look to them. He was destroyer without judgment, a god of death held aloft by wings of flame. Power coursed through him as he snapped yet again, laughing maniacally. A cat ran across the street and he instinctively shot a jet of flame at the poor animal, roasting it to a crisp.

He didn't know how Hawkeye had found him as he sat there blasting that damned cat over and over and over. He didn't even know she was there until she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his taller frame, pinning his arms to his sides. He hadn't even tried to resist, he'd just collapse back into her, his fingers digging painfully into her shoulder as he laughed. Hawkeye smoothed his hair back from his eyes and her calloused fingertips were surprisingly gentle. He had no idea how long they sat like that.

Only when Roy felt the coolness of the night air against his damp face did he realize that he had not been laughing at all.


	28. Age

a.n.: More of a Hawkeye drabble than a RoyAi one. And it's not exactly a syllogism by the dictionary definition of the word.

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.

86. Syllogism

Age

The porch is sagging, and she doesn't care. The boards creak beneath the legs of her rocker, and the sound compliments the wind in the nearby aspens, old upon old. The paint has worn away from the porch railing, and all that is left are a few lone specks of white, one in the shape of an elephant. She wonders if she ought to take up knitting, then pushes the thought aside, determined to be content with watching the clouds.

The tabby cat brushes by her leg, meowing, and she smiles at him. He's an ugly old creature, missing an eye and a tail. She pats him gently. She is the only one he allows touch him. He begins to purr, a grating rumble in his chest. There are plenty of other feral cats for him to fight with, but as he ages, he evades this pastime more and more often to sit sentinel by her leg.

A flock of geese fly overhead, and she closes her eyes, allowing the warmth of the sun to mingle with the birds' cries and wash over her like a soothing bath. Above her, the clouds swirl lazily overhead, and her joints predict a good rainfall this year. She slowly smooths her dress, faded calico stained by past sticky fingers. Her hands tremble as she does so, and this annoys her. She does not like to be reminded of her shell.

And so she sits there and rocks, this thirteen year old without a friend, this nineteen year old in the depths of hell, this twenty-five year old without remorse, this thirty year old with nothing but remorse. She is a thirty-three year old dancing with death, a thirty-seven year old on the brink of happiness, a forty-five year old with two children. She is a fifty-one year old with laugh-lines by her mouth, a fifty-nine year old with an empty house, a sixty-three year old grandmother and a seventy-two year old widow. She is the paradox of age, a vibrant young spirit muffled by the dry, wrinkled skin of one who has lived far too long.

She sighs as the breeze stirs the wind chimes, and continues to rock as she watches the sun set.


	29. Clean

a.n.: Hawkeye's back from Ishbal and having a rough time.

Disclaimer: This is , nobody owns anything.

Crime and Punishment

Clean

She must have been cold, but she doesn't notice it until she drops the soap and can't move her fingers to pick it up. Only then does she see that she is shaking. She glances at herself in the mirror, intrigued by the wraith she finds there. Dripping blond hair matted around her ears, sunken eyes, cheekbones like knives, her collarbone jutting out, she can count her ribs. Her hips stick out awkwardly, and she watches in fascination as she bends her knee and realizes she can see her tendons flex. Her lips are purple, and her nipples, flushed an angry red, stand in painful contrast to her grey skin.

_Who are you?_ She asks the mirror, staring into a stranger's face. She searches her reflection's eyes, hoping to find the answer, but this ghost's expression is simply a mockery of her confusion.

She has no idea what time it is, nor what day. When had she last left the apartment? An hour, a week, it all feels the same. Her mind is shrouded by thick grey dust that smells of sleep. Shooting pain runs through her abdomen and she doubles over, gasping. When was the last time she had eaten?

She creeps quietly into her kitchen, afraid that the darkness will hear her coming. The fridge light blinds her as she rummages for food among wilted lettuce and spoiled milk. A lone jar of peanut butter catches her eye, and peering inside, she decides that there is just enough for a sandwich. The bread is horribly stale and slightly moldy, but she doesn't notice. She scarfs down her food as quickly as possible with the practiced air of one who doesn't know when their next meal will be. Still, before she is even half finished, she finds herself transfixed by the sticky peanut butter on her fingertips. It feels like congealed blood.

She drops the sandwich, no longer hungry. She licks her lips nervously, and feels crumbs around her mouth, crumbs that taste of ash. Her towel falls to the floor as she brings her arms up defensively and nervously stumbles backward away from an unseen enemy. She's filthy again, she can sense it, she's streaked with dust and grime, and her hair is not plastered to her head with water but with blood. She bolts back to her shower, secure in the tiny white cubicle. She turns the water on once more, hissing as the icy blast scorches her skin. She grimaces and closes her eyes, letting the biting droplets comfort her. This is all she needs, a frigid downpour to scour away the dirt and sin.

She wonders if she'll feel clean soon.


End file.
